


Dinner For Two

by Blondie54x



Series: Tales of the Old Blood [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 00:47:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4726496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blondie54x/pseuds/Blondie54x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mission has ended, Napoleon has found himself a distraction, leaving Illya to his own devises.  Alone at a restaurant, Illya meets a charismatic Count, but is he more than he appears?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dinner For Two

 

_The human race has many faults. Above all is its arrogant belief in its superiority to all other life forms on this earth. Without conscience, we slaughter them for space and prey upon them for food._

_But in turn, humans are secretly preyed upon by others. In our fairy tales, we call Them ‘Vampires’, but They refer to Themselves as The Old Blood, an ancient lineage stretching back further than humanity’s own. Harried and reviled throughout the centuries, this ancient line of quasi-humans has learned to live secretly and, for the most part, peacefully amongst us. They do exist, and their lives can be as ordinary as our own. Only their dietary needs set them apart from the rest of humanity._

 

_Sorrento, Italy, 1965_

Count Allesandro Diego Di Mercurio shrugged into the elegant black jacket with its silk lapels and studied his reflection in the mirror. He smiled, and his reflection smiled back, reminding him yet again of one of the many ridiculous fallacies about his kind. It was an irritating reminder of the human’s fabricated tales, originating in peasant lore and exacerbated by so-called modern society.

Allesandro blamed the movie industry. They had created monsters out of a minority race that nobody understood or sympathized with. These manufactured myths about the Old Blood were ludicrous and far from the truth, for indeed, he could see his reflection and he could walk in the sunlight. And holy water? That fallback of priests and would be assassins? It would do nothing except leave him wet, and that was as true on the day of his rebirth as well as now.

Unconsciously, Allesandro’s finger rose, stroking over the material below the knot of his tie, feeling for the hard, white gold crucifix that lay against his throat. Another fallacy, this supposed inability to withstand a symbol of Christ's passion on the cross. It was an empty symbol in the hands of most modern humans anyway, for they no longer believed in the reality the symbol stood for. Allesandro wore it as a reminder of human frailty.

A large shadow loomed up behind him and Allesandro took one last look, checking his immaculate appearance. “Did you book my table, Eduardo?”

His manservant stepped closer, running a clothes brush unnecessarily over the back of the pristine jacket. “Yes, sir, your usual table in the corner. I also took the liberty of ordering your favorite wine, sir.”

“Thank you, Eduardo. I shall need you to drive me into the town center later. I’ll give you a call when I’m ready.”

A man of wealth, Allesandro liked to spend his time in peaceful pursuits these days; traveling the world, learning new languages, meeting interesting people. He didn’t enjoy the city with its nightclubs and boisterous atmosphere – they were noisy and the company usually tedious – but such gatherings were a useful resource.

Not that he needed to seek out sustenance, not in this day and age. There were much simpler ways to obtain the supplement his kind required – as easily as buying a carton of milk at the supermarket. But Allesandro’s family had old roots and ancient family traditions and if anything, Allesandro was a traditionalist. Besides, prepackaged plasma was as unappetizing and abhorrent to him as cheap champagne. It was sterile and bland, without any of the fine bouquet and flavor he’d come to relish and appreciate over the years.

But that yearning would be satisfied later, once he’d appeased his appetite for a fine wine. Wine was best served warm…or at least room temperature. And red, always red.

Eduardo held the door open for him, closing it quietly behind his employer as he exited to the elevator.

Allesandro made his way to his reserved table. The wine, already waiting for him, was one of his favorites. It was a small weakness of his, the fruit of the vine. This hotel had one of the best cellars in the district and when in town, it had become customary for him to spend an hour or so at this same table, enjoying the delightful bouquet and savoring the fruity taste before heading for one of the city’s many nightclubs and finding someone suitable to satisfy his other needs.

 

Illya Nickovech Kuryakin sank beneath the hot, soapy water with a heartfelt sigh that sent bubbles drifting lazily upwards to the surface. Reluctantly, he re-emerged, pushing his hands back over his head to squeeze the water from his hair. Nothing like a long soak in a hot bath to soothe those aching muscles. And ache they did. This assignment had been relatively simple, compared to others, but there had been an awful lot of strenuous physical work involved, thanks to his undercover role as a warehouse laborer. As usual, Solo had pulled the easy part, posing as a salesman to get in through the front door. All in all, the whole thing had been a breeze, ending with a satisfactory conclusion and a body, for once, left physically intact. Their reputation as Waverly’s golden boys remained firmly in place and their only reward was to take the rest of the day off. They weren’t expected back in New York until tomorrow evening.

So now he had a whole night free to do whatever he chose. Napoleon had left earlier, having already sniffed out a potential bed-mate for the evening; a beautiful brunette who’d smiled in open invitation when they were in the foyer earlier. Solo had returned to their shared room, quickly showered and changed, hurrying back downstairs before his quarry could escape.

Illya felt like a little company too, but he was still too tightly wound up from the mission for female company. Unwinding from an assignment with his veins still buzzing with adrenaline tended to make him twitchy, which in turn made him aggressive in bed. No woman, then. But in a strange town it was difficult to seek out someone of his own gender, someone with his own tastes, someone he could trust.

He sighed heavily, rubbing the loofah tentatively over protesting muscles. He would just have to turn to his other source of solace - food. Find a good restaurant, pick up a good book and retire early to bed for the night.

He soaked in the tub for another half hour, washing away the dirt along with the aches and pains, then dressed for dinner. His outfit was nothing special – one didn’t usually pack a tux when going on assignment – but it was clean and smart; plain white shirt and navy tie, blue jacket, black pants. He slipped downstairs and caught a cab.

The restaurant - recommended by one of the local agents – was situated on the ground floor of the best and most exclusive hotel in town. Kuryakin knew this was self-indulgent and uncharacteristically extravagant - Napoleon would never let him live it down if he ever found out. He could never understand the Russian’s obsession for food. But then, Napoleon’s childhood had probably been filled with mom’s apple pie and Thanksgiving turkey.

It was a mistake, not booking in advance. Each table in the restaurant was occupied, a situation the maître d’ insisted would be temporary, ‘if the gentleman cared to wait’. Illya decided to take his advice and followed his direction towards the bar.

It was busy, but that was only to be expected at this hour. Most of the occupants seemed to be here for a quiet drink. He ordered a glass of red wine and perched on a stool near the bar. Any other time he might have called it a night, returned to his hotel, ordered a sandwich and retired to bed early, but the mouth-watering bouquet wafting past his nose from the direction of the kitchen was as big a lure to Illya Kuryakin as a woman’s perfume was to Napoleon Solo. He decided that patience was, after all, a virtue: it was one of the few he had left.

As he sipped his wine, he turned and glanced about the restaurant, enviously watching the diners eat. He hoped a table would be vacant soon; he felt rather exposed sitting at the bar. His gaze flickered about once more, checking faces as he scanned the room, before his attention was caught and held a by a man who seemed to be regarding him steadily from a nearby table.

A pair of lightly tinted glasses hid the stranger's eyes from Illya's, but he guessed the eyes would be brown, or perhaps almost black, judging by the classic Italian features he could see.

_If he were to remove his glasses, I would see two ebony orbs that I would surely drown in_ , came the un-looked for, ridiculously romantic thought. Illya turned away as he suddenly realized he was staring back. Unsettled, he fixed his attention on the row of wine bottles racked behind the bar, trying to read the labels.

Several moments had passed when he felt a light touch to his arm. The maître d’, in his immaculate black suit, bowed his head courteously. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, pausing before him. “The gentleman in the corner asked me to ask you, that if you are dining alone, would you care to share his table?”

 

Allesandro had noted the handsome blond as soon as Kuryakin had come through the door. This human shone with the luster of polished gold amid the dim images of the dining room's other patrons. He had sensed, without too much effort, the man's evaluation of him, and now he removed his glasses, allowing the recipient of his gaze to see his eyes.

Kuryakin looked across at the man. The smoldering dark eyes were regarding him, smiling an invitation. Illya inclined his head in acknowledgment before turning back to the maître d’. “Do you know the gentleman?”

“Oh, yes, sir. He is Count Allesandro Diego Di Mercurio, a regular patron,” he said with pride. He leaned forward to whisper, confidentially, “He is a member of one of the oldest families in this region. Very wealthy, sir.”

Kuryakin paused to think. Why would someone offer to share his table with a total stranger? It seemed unlikely it was a Thrush plant. The man was ‘in situ’ when he arrived, and a fellow agent had recommended the restaurant, so the chance that this was a set-up was improbable. He glanced back at the man. The black eyes, filled with expectation, were still watching him.

Making his decision, Kuryakin slipped from the stool and followed the maître d’ across the room. They arrived at the table just as the handsome stranger was stubbing a cigarillo into an ashtray.

“Dispose of this, would you, Vincenzo?”

The voice was rich, melodious - a deep, soft baritone. The maître d’ nodded politely, removing the ashtray as Illya stood to one side.

“Please, sit down,” his host now offered politely, returning his attention back to the blond.

Illya did so, stretching out a hand. “Illya Kuryakin,” he said simply, as an introduction. His benefactor’s hand was strong and cool as it held the Russian’s smaller hand. Illya could feel the confidence and power through the man’s hand-shake.

“Allesandro Di Mercurio, at your service.”

Illya pulled his hand away from his host's intense grip. “It’s very gracious of you to share your table, Senior Di Mercurio,” he said, his voice coming smooth and quiet. But beneath that smoothness, something in his subconscious struggled to send him warning signals.   Something about this man wasn’t quite right.

“Please, call me Allesandro, and I shall call you Illya, if you don’t mind. And it is no imposition. Besides, I could see the hunger in your eyes from over here.”   _This is a sensitive human! He feels the fundamental difference between our two states of being despite my efforts to hide myself. Be careful, Allesandro!_

Illya studied him, trying to decide if there was a hidden meaning in his statement. “So you took pity on me. My stomach and I thank you.”

“You’re both welcome. Would you like some wine?” he asked, indicating the bottle and the Russian’s empty wine glass.

His hunger getting the better of him, Illya looked impatiently around. “What I would like is a menu.”

His host laughed, raising a hand towards one of the waiters. “Cameriere!”

While his host was distracted, Illya took the time to look him over. A handsome man, his shiny raven black hair was neatly trimmed and his large, dark eyes set in a richly tanned face. Not unlike Napoleon. Their common ancestry was apparent.

The waiter arrived, handing the menu to the Russian and nodding politely to the Italian. He waited patiently to one side as Kuryakin glanced through the menu. “I think I shall start with a mushroom salad, followed by the Bistecche alla Pizzaiolla, thank you.”

“And wine, sir?”

Before Illya could respond, his host interrupted. “Please, share mine, it is an excellent accompaniment to steak. Another bottle, Antonio,” he said, gesturing to the bottle of Botticino.

The waiter nodded and smiled politely as he reclaimed the menu and left

Noticing that his host hadn’t ordered from the menu, Illya inquired, “You are not eating?”

“No, I had a light salad earlier,” Allesandro said carefully. “I hope to have something more… substantial later, perhaps.”

A strange silence descended for a moment as Illya glanced about. As his gaze wandered around the room’s rich decor, Illya, in turn, could feel the Italian steadily scrutinizing him. He turned back to face his companion and, unabashed, Allesandro simply smiled at him.

Illya looked up as the waiter returned, smiling his thanks as the plate of salad was placed before him. He picked up the fork and began to stab at the slivers of sliced mushroom, gathering several pieces before raising them to his mouth. He chewed slowly, allowing his taste buds to relish the flavor before swallowing the tasty morsel. He closed his eyes and sighed in bliss.

His companion chuckled at his sigh of contentment and upended the remainder of the bottle into the Russian’s glass. The waiter promptly appeared with another. “Thank you, Antonio.”

Illya chased the salad down with a sip of the wine to clear his throat, indicating his approval with a widening of eyes as the wine touched his palate. “This is excellent.”

“It’s a favorite of mine. The cellar here has one of the best collections in the district.”

“You’re obviously a regular. Do you live locally?”

The Italian shook his head. “No, I have a house in Florence but I travel extensively. I stay here when I visit my family. I was born in Ravello, not far from here.”

Illya ate some more to appease his stomach, then asked, “You said you travelled. Business or pleasure?”

“A little business but mostly for pleasure,” Allesandro replied. “What about you? What brings you to Sorrento?”

“Work,” Illya replied ambiguously.

“Oh? What is it you do for a living?”

Kuryakin picked a lie; one of many he’d used in the past. “I’m an interpreter. You know, for businessmen, diplomats. Anyone who needs an interpreter and is willing to provide an expense account." Regretfully, Illya forked the last of the mushrooms into his mouth.

“It must pay quite well.”

“I’m sorry?” Illya pushed the empty plate aside and the waiter promptly removed it.

“Your work. Dining in one of the town’s most exclusive restaurants?” Allesandro suddenly stopped, lowering the glass to the table, mortified by his own comment. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me. I didn’t mean to imply….”

“That’s all right.” Illya leaned forward, whispering confidentially, “I consider eating out to be one of the perks of the job.”

Allesandro laughed, partly in appreciation, partly to cover the surge of excitement the closer proximity of this warm human sent racing through him. “Perhaps I should take a closer look at my employees’ expense claims.”

“Perhaps you should,” Illya replied, softening his teasing remark with a smile. “What exactly do you do?” he inquired.

_I search the earth looking for a human worthy of being my companion. Worthy of spending the centuries with me. Are you the one? Could you end my aching loneliness?_

Allesandro shrugged, an elegant gesture. “I own two factories in Rome, a winery in Liguria, and a shop in Milan that sells exorbitantly priced, yet highly fashionable, clothing.”

Illya’s eyebrows rose at the impressive list. “They must keep you busy?”

Allesandro laughed. “I have little to do with their management. I merely reap the profits.”

“Which brings me back to my original question. What exactly do you do? With your spare time, I mean,” he asked, tempering the impertinent question with a smile.

Unabashed, Allesandro grinned. “I’m ashamed to say, when one has money, there is little else to do with one’s time except travel. It gives a person a well-rounded perspective on life, don’t you agree? Besides, I like to experience different cultures, meet interesting people. Like yourself, for instance.”

“Me?" Illya asked, curious to know what was it was Allesandro found interesting about him.

“Yes,” Allesandro replied simply, refilling his own glass. He raised it to his lips and swallowed a mouthful before continuing. “You’re obviously well-travelled, too. I can see in your eyes that you’ve experienced a great deal of what life has to offer.”

Illya frowned, lowered his tell-tale eyes to the table. “I like to travel. The local history interests me.”

_Why are you so reluctant to divulge the richness of your character? It is plain to me… Ah, but I sense your thoughts, beautiful Illya._

“You should visit The Duomo," Allesandro offered. "It is an old cathedral with some rather strange artefacts.” He paused, as if considering his next words. “Tomorrow, if you like, I could take you there. It would please me to show off one of our local historic monuments.”

The blond hair shimmied as the Russian shook his head driving Allesandro nearly mad with the desire to feel its softness and the heat beneath. “That’s very kind, thank you, but I’m flying home in the morning.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Allesandro said, sounding disappointed. “Where is home?”

“New York.”

“But your name and your accent… you’re obviously not American?”

“No. Ukrainian, by birth.”

“Ah.” Then Allesandro surprised Kuryakin by telling his guest, in flawless Russian, “I was privileged to visit Kyiv, once. The Kyiv-Pecherska Lavra, St Sophia Cathedral…" He waved one long-fingered, elegant hand, at a loss for words. "A beautiful city, with a long history.”

“Your Russian is excellent,” Kuryakin said, genuinely pleased to hear the familiarity of his language.

“That’s very gracious of you. We can continue in Russian, if you wish?”

“That’s not necessary, thank you. It would be rude of me, especially after you so kindly offered to share your table. Besides, I think my Italian needs the practice.”

Allesandro laughed. “You’re being modest and you know it. Your Italian is… well, as good as my Russian, I think. But if it will please you, we shall speak Italian.”

They sat in comfortable silence as the waiter returned, placing a generously filled plate in front of the Russian. Illya picked up the utensils and started to slice into the meat.

“You should try your steaks rare,” Allesandro suggested. “It brings out the flavor of the meat.”

Illya’s nose wrinkled. “I have no taste for the blood.” _I see too much of it._ “Besides, I like to be sure my food is dead.”

Allesandro smiled inwardly. He preferred his very much alive. Like this young man: vibrant, vigorous and so full of life. As his companion’s attention turned to cutting up his steak, Allesandro studied the face of his guest. Everything about the young man’s appearance was extraordinary, from the shiny gold cap of hair to those full red lips. But the most striking feature of all – and the one that Allesandro had first noticed from across the room – were his eyes, a startling shade of blue, framed by long, dark gold lashes.

Those eyes looked up at him now, and Allesandro felt the breath catch in his throat as they caught his gaze.

Illya chewed the piece of meat, hurrying to swallow as he tapped the plate with his finger. “Mm, this is very good. The food here is excellent.”

Allesandro looked pleased. “I’m so glad you’re enjoying it. The chef once worked for my father. I’ll be sure to pass him your compliments.”

“And well deserved. Good food is a small weakness of mine. I have so few vices and eating is one of them.”

“Oh? And the others?” Allesandro probed playfully.

“Are probably best not discussed at the dining table,” Illya replied, noncommittally. The Russian gave Allesandro an impish grin that lit up his face and ignited something deep in Allesandro’s soul. The Italian found himself fiddling with the unused napkin on his side of the table. He stilled his hand, picking up his wine glass instead.

Illya could see that Allesandro’s dark eyes were contemplating him again, a mixture of amusement and something else - a look of desire, a craving that Illya had seen on the face of others before. It was a look he usually chose to ignore - but perhaps not tonight. He began to revise his earlier plans for this evening’s recreation. Perhaps there might be more on the menu tonight other than a good steak.

Allesandro suddenly grinned, having sensed the unprotected thoughts of his companion. “I suspect you and I have more in common than a love of travel and good food, my friend.”    

“Perhaps,” Illya replied, ambiguously, a hint of a smile curling his lips.

They continued to talk as the Russian continued to eat. Allesandro drew his reluctant companion into espousing his opinions on art, governments and politics. He dared even touch upon belief systems. It was a conversation that Illya would have found exhausting and not a little alarming, but there was something about this man that invited a deeper sharing than he usually allowed.

Illya finished his meal with a generous portion of spumoni, much to Allesandro’s amusement. “It would seem your appetite is insatiable,” he teased the blond.

Illya looked up at him as he pushed the emptied plate to one side. Allesandro’s words were full of double meanings. Illya had no doubts about were this evening would lead.

By the end of his meal, Illya was feeling unusually content and mellow. It was a pleasant surprise to the Russian. Illya seldom felt at ease in the company of strangers. He had to work hard to give the impression of unaffected nonchalance, unlike Napoleon, whose easy charm and cosmopolitan air allowed him to fit in comfortably no matter what the situation. Tonight, the wine had been good, the food excellent and the company – engaging and discerning. They continued talking, comparing books they’d read and music they preferred, discovering numerous common interests. Allesandro even had an amateur’s fondness for science and chatted comfortably about recent advances in physics. They had just finished a conversation on the theories and paradoxes of time travel, when Illya glanced at his watch. “Speaking of which, I should leave,” Illya replied, finishing his drink in one gulp, “I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time. I hope my company wasn’t too much of a chore?”

Allesandro shook his head. “No chore at all. I’ve enjoyed your companionship very much, Illya. In fact, I should very much like it if you would stay a little longer and join me for a drink,” Allesandro asked quietly.

So, now it was out in the open. Allesandro wanted him to stay, wanted… well, Illya could guess what he wanted, and he realized that he wanted it too. A small shiver of anticipation ran up his spine.

“Well,” Illya glanced about, noticing for the first time there were only a handful of people left in the room. It was late – later than he realized. He’d been enjoying his host’s company so much that time had flown by. His attention was distracted by a rattling sound as the bartender pulled down a decorative steel security guard over the bar and began flicking off the lights. “I believe the bar is closed.”

“I have a well-stocked bar in my suite", Allesandro informed him smoothly. "It would be a shame to have the evening end so soon, just as we were getting to know each other better. I have a bottle of Stolichnaya in my room,” he added as incentive.

How could he refuse? Illya nodded his consent and turned to catch the eye of the waiter. “Could I have the bill, please?”

The slip of paper was presented to him but as Illya picked it up, Allesandro told the waiter, “Please put this on my account.”

“No,” Illya protested, “really. You supplied the wine, at least let me pay for my own meal.”

“You’re a visitor in my country. It would offend me deeply if you don’t let me take care of this.” Allesandro reached for the bill in Illya’s hand, lingering a moment as their fingers touched.

Illya relinquished the slip of paper, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. “Very well. Thank you, it’s very kind of you.”

Illya began to feel nervous as they left the lift and walked towards Allesandro’s suite. As they entered, Illya tensed as another man came out of the adjoining room. Seeing his apprehension, Allesandro explained. “My manservant, Eduardo. Chauffeur, butler, secretary. A man of many talents. I am lost without him.” He patted the large man on the shoulder. “You may retire now, Eduardo. I shall not be needing you until the morning.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Eduardo searched the eyes of his employer, then took another, closer look at the blond. The trip into the city would not be necessary. The Master had found what he needed. He nodded politely in the Russian’s direction and left.

Kuryakin felt the tension drain from his body, only to be replaced by sudden anxiety. He was in no doubt about his host’s reason for the invitation and suddenly he was as nervous as a teenager on his first date as Allesandro walked up behind him. Strong hands slipped over Illya’s shoulders, settling on his jacket collar. Allesandro’s voice, close to his ear, said quietly, “Let me take your coat.” Illya allowed it to slip from his shoulders to be caught up in the Italian’s hands.

Two quick impressions slapped his conscious mind even as he felt his will to resist fade into obscurity. The man's breath had no…smell. But that was not the extent of the difference, really. It was chill, devoid of warmth. Yes, that was it.

Allesandro draped the jacket over a chair before moving to the small bar and setting two glasses on the top. He unscrewed the cap on a bottle of vodka and filled the two shot glasses, handing one to his guest. He gestured towards the couch and Illya accepted the invitation, perching on the edge of the thickly padded seat. Allesandro took a chair opposite and stared intently at the Russian for several moments in silence.

Allesandro wasn’t usually choosy about the gender of his pick-ups, though he generally preferred women. They were easier to beguile, less likely to throw a punch at a misunderstood comment. His preferred hunting ground was the local nightclub, full of happy, transient visitors. Tourists were the easiest targets, never staying too long and happy for a brief, holiday romance with a handsome stranger. He’d never invited anyone to share his table when he was taking his customary glass of evening wine, and the idea of inviting someone back to his suite had never been a consideration.

Yet, Allesandro had broken all his self-imposed rules for this man. He’d been entranced from the moment he’d seen the blond enter the dining room.

Allesandro broke his quiet contemplation and said, “Has anyone ever told you, you have the most beautiful eyes?”

The flattery was unexpected. Illya ducked his head as he felt his color rise, burning his cheeks. He glanced up at his host before swallowing the liquor in his glass. “It’s kind of you to say so.” He returned his gaze to his empty glass. _Yes, just like a teenager on his first date,_ thought Illya. _I shall begin to stammer as well as blush, next_.

“Not at all. It was the first thing I noticed about you, your eyes.” Allesandro rose, covering the short distance between them in two short steps. He reached down, gently cupping Illya’s chin, turning his face upwards. “I do believe you hypnotized me, Illyusha,” he said quietly. His hand slipped away, releasing the pale face, and took the empty glass from Illya’s unsteady hand. “Let me fill your glass.”

The shock of the endearment turned Illya's thoughts away from the cool touch. As he walked back to the bar, Illya asked, “Where did you hear that name?”

Allesandro bent, opening a cupboard under the bar top. “Illyusha? When I was in Kyiv, the hotelier’s son was called Ilya. I remembered his friends called him Ilyusha. I thought it rather charming. Do you mind? If you’d rather I didn’t….?”

Illya shook his head. “No, I was just surprised. Nobody has called me that in a long time.” In fact, it was strange to realize how comforting he found it. Americans didn’t know the diminutive of his name and the last person to use it had been his mother as she’d said goodbye to him at Moscow airport. It gave him a feeling akin to homesickness.

Allesandro stood, holding aloft a tall, straight bottle. “You must try some of this,” he said, holding out a black bottle with an antique-looking label.

“What is it?” the Russian asked dubiously as he settled further back against the red brocade sofa.

“It’s a liqueur, prepared on my family estate, made with an infusion of local fruits and herbs. It’s an old recipe that’s been in my family for generations. I shall join you.” He poured a generous measure in both glasses, handing one to his guest.

To appease his suspicious nature, Illya held the glass, waiting until his host tossed back the liquid in one gulp before carefully taking a sip. The liquid was sweet with a nutty flavor that held a hint of cinnamon. It slipped down his throat, spreading a warm glow as it went. “Mm.” Illya couldn’t help the little sigh of appreciation and took another, deeper sip. The liqueur was delicious.

“Do you like it? Here, have some more.” Allesandro tipped the bottle up, managing to almost fill the glass before Kuryakin halted it with a firm finger.

“I have a flight tomorrow. I should hate to miss it.”

“Of course, but you’ve barely had a taste. The flavor of the liqueur can be appreciated more with a second glass,” Allesandro replied, refilling his own with the strong alcohol. As Illya raised the glass to drink, Allesandro halted his hand. “Wait a moment,” he said, moving behind the sofa. Illya heard the scratch of a match and a few seconds later, the lights were dimmed. Allesandro came back into view carrying an ornate candle-holder, complete with a large, fat, flickering candle. “Some things are best savored by candlelight,” he said, placing the lighted candle on the coffee table. It gave off a strange scent, reminding Illya of the incense that had burned in the church he and Napoleon had had cause to visit in Rome the previous week. The smoke from the candle drifted across his face on the light currents of air that stirred about the room.

Allesandro sat down next to him so that Illya might get accustomed to his presence. Occasionally, his quarry became alarmed when he closed in on them. It was some sort of primitive bodily alarm system, he supposed, that alerted them they were sharing the company of one not quite human.   This one he would be careful with. This one he would relish. A slow cherishing. A slow bringing over.

Dare he take him both ways? Penetration by tooth and cock?

Allesandro shivered in anticipation as he contemplated this delicious double conquest. To cover this, he picked up his glass and tapped it against the Russian’s. “Za vas!” (to you) Allesandro threw back his head and tossed the drink down his throat in the traditional Russian manner. Illya followed suit, gasping as the mouthful of strong liqueur took his breath away, leaving him dizzy as it slid down his throat. He stared at his empty glass, hardly noticing Allesandro’s fingers as they wrapped around it and pulled it from his lax grasp.

Lightheaded, Illya turned towards his host as Allesandro’s hand slid up his arm and gently coaxed the blond to face him. “Relax, Illyusha. You will enjoy this evening, I promise,” Allesandro whispered.

Allesandro’s advice was unnecessary; Illya offered no resistance as Allesandro lips pressed against his and a strong hand slipped around Illya’s waist, pulling him nearer, crushing their bodies together as the kiss became more intense, more demanding.

Illya felt heady, drunk, a combination of fine wine, the potent liqueur and Allesandro. He rarely lost control drinking in company – it was a matter of pride – yet somehow, for the moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He could only feel the fiery heat of the liqueur spreading outwards from the pit of his stomach, turning his limbs to Jell-O and setting his groin aflame. In the tight confines of his pants, his cock began to throb as his passion flared. Allesandro’s hand slid down to his hip, tentatively brushed across his erection as if testing the waters. As they kissed, he felt Allesandro’s mouth smile in satisfaction as Illya pushed against his inquisitive hand.

Suddenly, Allesandro’s arms tightened around his body and Illya gasped as he was suddenly raised and lifted from the sofa. The Italian’s strength was surprising, Illya protested weakly as Allesandro walked across the room with him cradled in the Italian’s arms. It was discomforting, being carried like a helpless maiden. “Allesandro…” he began uncertainly.

“Shh, my sweet. The drawing room is not the place to make love.”

They entered the dark bedroom and Allesandro carefully deposited his precious burden on the bed before moving away. Illya lay where he’d been left, a million butterflies fluttering for escape in his stomach, as he watched Allesandro walk about, setting a match to candles around the room. They gave off a warm, soft glow, enough to see by but not enough to distract. Illya felt the tight band of doubt that had begun to constrict his chest, relax a notch. He closed his eyes and breathed in the delicate aroma of the candles, barely aware of the hands that gently pulled away his clothing until he felt the touch of cool, naked flesh against his own.  

"Relax, Illyusha. Yes, I know, but I will soon be warm," whispered the Italian, becoming desperate to share Illya's heat. So much heat. A world of warmth and joy! _My Illyusha!_

Then Allesandro was kissing him again and the butterflies disappeared, replaced by an urgent pulsing in his groin.

It was a strange contrast, the cool of the sheets beneath him, the peculiar lack of warmth of the body above, and himself, hot and fevered and sandwiched in between. This position was alien, too, due to the fact that this was not usually a position Illya preferred in his sexual encounters. Always on top, whether his bedmate was male or female. Illya hated the feeling of being trapped beneath someone, it brought on a sense of panic, opened the door on too many bad memories. Yet here, in this man’s company, he felt safe, warm, cherished. Allesandro was soothing him with light caresses and gentle words until the Russian was so relaxed, he thought he would melt into the mattress.

Allesandro looked down at the body he covered with his own. Illya’s eyes were half closed, showing just a glimpse of the stunning blue irises. Allesandro kissed the lids, encouraging them to close. He would never consummate this if he lost himself in the depth of this man’s eyes.

If he chose to, Allesandro could take his nourishment now; Illya would never know. Relaxed by a combination of the ‘family brew’ and the herbal candles, he would put up little resistance. A little petting, a few kisses and a quick nip at the skin. Once the potent narcotic in Allesandro’s saliva entered the bloodstream, the donor’s co-operation would be assured.

Allesandro had rarely needed – rarely wanted – to take an encounter further than a little harmless foreplay. He wasn’t, after all, courting them with a view to marriage - his needs were more basic.

This beautiful soul was different. The urge to couple with this man was primal, almost instinctive; it overpowered his usual need for caution with his donors. After only a short time in Illya’s company, Allesandro had realized he wanted more than a taste of this man’s blood – he wanted to feel his body beneath him, wanted to feel skin against skin, wanted to bury himself deeply to the hilt as he drank, melding one very intimate moment with another. The very idea was all consuming.

Restless, Allesandro’s mouth moved reluctantly away from the pouting lips, nibbling gently at the jaw line, tongue gliding across slick skin towards a perfectly formed ear. His hot mouth suckled a dainty lobe, chewed gently before releasing it to move on again, down the side of the pale neck, his mouth pausing in places to suck at the delightfully tasting skin. Salty with sweat, Allesandro lapped at it, becoming more excited with every square inch he reconnoitered.

Illya lay passive, his eyes remaining closed as a rough tongue rasped across a sensitive spot on his neck. Allesandro’s hands moved ceaselessly over his body, thumbs rubbing over hard nipples, fingers stroking along his cock. Giddy from the sensations, Illya sighed. It seemed an age since he’d last indulged his need for male contact, it was a thrill he hadn’t experienced for a long time.

Both their bodies were hot now, Allesandro already absorbing some of the heat from the furnace which burned within each human cell. They slid easily against each other on a fine sheen of perspiration. The Italian’s mouth traced over his flesh, seeking, searching. The roving lips stopped at the base of his neck and the tongue lapped, catlike, several times over the same spot.

Allesandro could sense the blood pulsing through the veins beneath the skin, so close to the surface he could smell it. So sweet. His kind always had a better sense of smell and taste than humans. Thousands of years of evolution had refined their bodies, until their blood taking was almost undetectable.

He inhaled deeply, tasted the skin again with his tongue, rolling the flavor around in his mouth. The blood beneath was running fast now, rich with adrenaline and other body chemicals released by arousal, telling Allesandro that Illya’s body, relaxed and intoxicated by the brew, was ready for him.

But Allesandro was intoxicated too. This man was beautiful, a face like an angel and a body like Adonis. Allesandro wanted more than his ritual blood taking. He wanted to possess this body, to claim it, to bury himself deep inside. His mind burned feverishly with the thought even as he insinuated himself between the Russian’s legs and let his hand slip between the muscular thighs, searching the cleft beyond.

He knew instinctively that this man was chaste here. Unsullied, unspoiled. It was not his to take but Illya’s to give, a treasure he could only ask for. His nose nuzzled against the perfectly shaped ear, whispering, pleading, “I want you so much, Illyusha. Please, please….”

“Yesss…." Illya breathed, the sound barely a sigh from between his lips. It was all the Italian needed. Impatiently, he quickly prepared the tight opening with saliva-moistened fingers as his mouth brushed along the pale neck, seeking just the right place.

There, just above the juncture between the neck and collarbone, where the pulse throbbed with the beat of his heart…. Allesandro’s mouth hovered over the spot while he positioned his cock at the entrance to Illya’s body.

Without conscious effort, tiny muscles in Allesandro’s palate extended and lengthened his needle sharp incisors. He gently pinned his lover to the bed, prepared for the brief resistance he knew would come. He bit down quickly, breaking through the flesh on the neck at the same time he pierced the virgin portal of the body beneath. Illya jerked but the struggle was brief as a fast acting narcotic was injected into the vein, sending a potent aphrodisiac racing through the blood stream

For the Russian, the breaching of his vein was transient; a sharp, brief prick, and the peculiar sensation of twin needles entering his flesh. Before he could worry about its cause, a near orgasmic pleasure raced through his whole body like a flash flood, heightening his senses, increasing his excitement and causing him to forget any concerns he may have harbored.

Suddenly, Illya was more alive than he had ever been, more aware and yet not. His entire being was centered around Allesandro and the feel of the Italian’s body, hot and grinding against his own. The mouth suckled at his neck as Allesandro’s cock eased its way slowly into the tight passage. Illya felt no pain, only the exquisite pleasure of the narcotic that played along his nerves and excited the pleasure centers in his brain.

Allesandro trembled as warm blood flowed from the punctures in the soft skin and into his eager mouth, drinking it down with a pleasure almost as intense as the sex itself. With difficulty, he forced himself to move slowly, enjoying the sensation of the initial penetration, gently impaling, relishing the hot velvet glove that tightly surrounded his cock. It wasn’t long before the craving took over and his pace quickened. He knew he could not make this last, but at the same time he never wanted this to end. The dual bombardment of his senses was overwhelming, quickening his pace as the urgency built inside him. Oh, how he wanted this to last, to stay merged with this beautiful man in this most ultimate of embraces, but the taking of too much blood would be a danger to his sweet lover and he couldn’t, wouldn’t endanger his life.

His blood-hunger satisfied, Allesandro pulled away, licked carefully over the spot to seal the breach, then turned his attention to Illya’s cock. He tugged on the hard shaft trapped between their bodies, trying to hold back until his lover came.

Illya bucked under him, arching up, and all restraint was gone. Illya’s eyes flew open, looked at him, and Allesandro was lost. Uncontrollably, he thrust deep, again and again, crying out as the first hot rush of his seed filled his lover’s body.

Illya responded to the stimulus as the waves of Allesandro’s orgasm gathered him up, carried him along, took him thundering over the edge. He cried out as his own climax, so acute as to be almost painful, reverberated through his nervous system, wave after wave, leaving him trembling and exhausted.

Illya closed his eyes, just for a moment, floating on the warmth and satiation that followed close on the heels of the initial overpowering sensations. He had melted, he was sure, transformed into a boneless creature, unable to move, unwilling to stir. He allowed himself to drift on the warm currents of contentment - just for a second or two – waiting for his breathing to slow and his heartbeat to return to normal, and while he waited, he thought he dreamed of another place, another time….

 

The sensation of fingers gently stroking through his hair brought him reluctantly back with slowly dawning clarity. Where was he? Oh, yes - in bed, with a man. With Allesandro.

Groggily, he raised a hand against the glare of the candles. They seemed exceptionally bright, piercing his shuttered eyelids with a determination to blind him. He turned away from the brightness and forced open his eyes. The handsome Italian lay beside him, propped up on his side, looking down at the Russian with a fond smile. Beautifully manicured fingers reached out to brush back the disheveled blond bangs. Sleepily, Kuryakin returned the smile, taking the hand in his own and gently kissing the palm. “I should go, Allesandro. It must be late,” Illya told him, still reluctant to move.

Allesandro grinned. “Illyusha, sweetheart,” he said, with a gentle kiss, “it’s morning.”

Morning? “What?” Illya sat up, too quickly his pounding head reminded him, and looked around. The light that had filtered painfully through his eyelids came from the early morning sun. With a loud groan, he flopped back down on the bed. This was so out of character for him, staying out all night with a date.

The details of the previous night’s activities were a little fuzzy – that ‘family’ brew was certainly potent stuff – but his memory, and Allesandro’s caressing hand on his belly, stirred enough to start an inconvenient tingle in his groin.

He looked up at the man whose bed he shared. Allesandro was such easy company: intelligent, charming and urbane. So much like Napoleon Solo, in so many ways. Maybe that was the reason he was so relaxed with this man. Perhaps, his subconscious argued, he was simply using Allesandro as a substitute. Napoleon had always been beyond his reach: unapproachable, aloof and so blatantly heterosexual. But no, despite Illya’s fondness and occasional fantasies about his partner, he’d never experienced this strong an attraction for Napoleon.

His bladder demanded attention. Reluctantly, he tried to slide out of bed and his lover tightened an arm around the slender waist. Lightly chastising, he said, “Allesandro, I should like to get up.”

The Italian grinned. “Mmm, so would I, Illyusha, so would I.” He leaned down to kiss his blond lover but, with a sly smile, the Russian slipped from underneath him and out of the bed. Allesandro leaned back against the headboard, fondly watching the pale cheeks disappear through the bathroom door.

After using the toilet, Illya showered quickly and, with a towel wrapped around his waist, studied his reflection in the mirror over the washbasin.

He hated to admit it, but he looked pleased with himself, smug and satisfied. And somehow different. Allesandro was the first man he’d ever allowed to make love to him in that most intimate of ways. Now he was no longer any kind of a virgin and somehow he didn’t seem to care. He felt whole, complete, as if a missing piece of him had been restored. Was this what it was like to be in love? It was a ridiculous notion. They barely knew each other, they’d only just met, and yet, there was an instant connection between them, a feeling of kinsman-ship, despite their obvious social differences.

He shook the absurd thought away and leaned forward, turning his head to one side to get a better look at the love bite that marred the otherwise flawless neck. Allesandro had left quite an impression. The mark wasn’t large but it was very noticeable. He would have to wear a turtle-neck for a few days but that wouldn’t be a problem.

What was wrong with him? He had never allowed this to happen before, to be marked this way. He’d always considered it the clumsy act of a juvenile. Hickeys, wasn’t that what Napoleon called them? In morbid fascination, he touched the purple and red blotch: it was tender and a little sore.

A gentle hand covered his and soft lips nuzzled at his ear. “It will fade,” Allesandro assured him, pressing warmly up against the Russian’s back, his arm snaking around the slender waist as he hooked his chin over the bony shoulder. "I must apologize for leaving you with a lingering reminder of what we shared. I lost all restraint. Forgive me."

For a seemingly endless moment, they regarded each other in the mirror until finally, with a deep sigh, Allesandro squeezed him closer. “Stay with me. Come back to bed.”

“I can’t,” Illya replied, almost reluctant to refuse. The offer was tempting and, if he were anything other than what he was, he might have complied. It was strange, alien to him, this feeling of well-being and contentment. It was comfortable and pleasing, like waking up in a warm bed on a winter’s day and knowing you didn’t have to get up for work. Its allure was tempting.

“Go back next week, then. At least stay a little longer,” Allesandro pleaded. He loved the feel of his lover’s body and possessively crushed it to his chest. Mine, to have and to hold, he thought. From this day forward…..

“I have a job to go to, Allesandro,” Illya replied reasonably.

“Then quit. Let the diplomats take care of themselves. I’ll take care of you.” Allesandro’s hands moved down purposefully, tugging at the towel around the slim waist and letting it drop to the floor. Despite himself, Illya smiled at the ridiculous notion. “I can’t.” His head dropped back, resting against the muscular shoulder as warm hands caressed their way around his body, melting the flesh beneath their fingertips.

“Why can’t you?" Allesandro murmured, kissing his way down the unbruised side of the Russian’s neck, rapidly flushing pink with arousal. The fingers of one hand found and teased a stiffening erection while the other caressed across a muscular breast.

“Because I have to be at the airport in….” Damn! Napoleon! How could I have forgotten? He suddenly pulled out of his lover’s arms and dashed back into the bedroom. “What time is it?” he asked, frantically looking for his watch amongst the debris of clothes on the floor.

“Six thirty.” Allesandro laughed. “Don’t panic. I remembered you said you had a flight at eight.” He paused. “Unless you wish to cancel it.”

Kuryakin glowered at him as he tugged on his shorts. “I must call my colleague. He’ll be wondering where I am. May I use the phone?”

“Of course. I’ll ask Eduardo to arrange breakfast. Anything in particular you’d like?”

“Everything,” Illya said as he picked up the receiver. Allesandro grinned, remembering his lover’s fondness for food.

Illya waited while Allesandro closed the door, allowing him some privacy, then picked up his communicator. Solo answered immediately, his concern evident in his snappish tone. “Where the hell are you?”

“At the Excelsior. I… met someone. You know how it is.” Of course he did, but Illya wasn’t the alley-cat that Solo was. He never stayed out all night. Napoleon chose not to mention the fact.

“Excelsior? I’m impressed. Upstairs or downstairs?”

“Excuse me?”

"A guest or a serving wench? I’m guessing one of the waitresses, since you spend most of your free time in restaurants.”

“I never kiss and tell, Napoleon. Listen, can I meet you at the airport? I haven’t had breakfast yet and I’m starving.”

He could almost see Napoleon’s lascivious smile. “Must have been a good night. Of course. I wouldn’t want you passing out on me. I’ll pack your things and see you there. Oh, and Illya. I hope she’s worth it.” The last sentence held a hint of sharpness, a tone Illya had heard many times during their partnership. Solo’s possessive streak.

Illya capped his communicator and finished dressing.

 

In the car, on the way to the airport, Allesandro tried again to persuade the Russian to delay his return to New York. It was too soon, Allesandro wanted more time with his new lover, but Illya was adamant that he must meet his friend.

They arrived at the busy airport, all too soon for Allesandro’s liking, and said their good-byes in the privacy of the car’s interior, secreted from the world by tinted glass. They exchanged a last kiss and a few tender words of regret before the Italian released his hand and let him go. The door slammed shut and Allesandro felt bereft. Unlike the hundreds of other donors before him, this young man had touched his soul - if his kind could be said to have one. He felt connected to him, inexplicably saddened at the loss.

This wasn’t right, to lose something precious you had only just found. He ran a finger over the window, tracing the Russian’s outline as if to physically touch him. Allesandro watched until the figure disappeared through the door and out of his sight, into the depths of the airport building.

  

Kuryakin glanced briefly behind him, as he walked across the road to the building. The Bentley sat at the roadside, its tinted windows hiding its occupant from sight. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Allesandro was watching him. He could almost feel the black eyes following him as he walked towards the door.

After he entered the airport building, Illya turned to look out of the window, watching with regret as the Bentley pulled away from the curb. He almost jumped when Napoleon’s voice spoke in his ear. “Hi, partner!”

Illya had years of practice in schooling his expressions; he composed his features in a second. “Am I late?” he casually asked his partner.

“Five minutes. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

_I was tempted,_ Illya thought. He started to walk towards the check-in desk and Napoleon strode alongside, glancing constantly at his partner as they walked. Illya ignored the appraising looks. It was Napoleon’s habit after an evening’s separation, cataloguing his features, checking him out, as if to satisfy himself that his partner was still in one piece. Half way across to the desk, Napoleon asked, “Did you have a good night?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Illya didn’t feel the need to explain.

“I saw the car you came in, very impressive. What was she, a Countess?” A hint of sarcasm, Solo’s jealous side again.

Illya glanced over at his partner and met his eyes calmly, defiantly. “A Count, actually.”

To Napoleon’s credit, he hardly batted an eyelid as the information offered, sunk in. “Ah. One of those nights.” Illya heard the disapproval. Though Napoleon’s views on same sex relationships were usually quite liberal, he always seemed to disapprove of Illya’s liaisons - of any kind. Illya was pretty sure that Solo didn’t want him that way – he just didn’t want anyone else to have him either. It was a strange relationship they had.

Suddenly, Napoleon was grasping him firmly by the elbow and pulling him to a stop. A small frown furrowed Solo’s brow as he leaned in close to his partner. So close, Illya could hear him draw in a deep breath through his nose. He was inhaling, scenting something on Illya – Allesandro’s cologne?

Napoleon pulled away and his hazel eyes fixed hard on Illya’s own, once more assessing but this time with an intensity that unnerved the Russian. Disconcerted, Illya turned his head aside and in doing so, exposed the bruise on his neck. He flinched when Napoleon reached out and roughly tugged down the Russian’s collar. One cool finger touched the bruised area. “He did this! Did he hurt you?” Napoleon demanded.

“Of course not. Don’t be absurd!” Illya replied hotly, pulling the collar back into place. He didn’t understand Napoleon’s concern. He often showed his disapproval but not usually so vehemently. Under normal circumstances, Illya would have told his superior to go to hell and mind his own business, but something in his partner’s eyes told him that would be the wrong thing to say. Besides, Illya wasn’t in the mood for an argument. To appease Napoleon, he reluctantly said, “Don’t worry. I’m hardly likely to see him again, am I?”

“No, I guess not,” Napoleon said, relief evident in his tone. His mood seemed to change at the thought, brightening considerably. He gave Illya a warm smile and tapped him on the elbow, pointing in the direction of the café. “Let’s grab a quick coffee first. The flight’s been delayed for an hour.”

Illya didn’t particularly relish the idea of sitting in a crowded café for the next hour, making small talk with his partner. He looked forward to getting on the plane, sitting down and closing his eyes in pretense of sleep.

He was genuinely sorry to leave. It was regrettable but inevitable. Illya had become used to the idea of never having a long-term relationship. He expected nothing and, consequently, received nothing in return.

 

Allesandro, on the other hand, had been born into wealth. He had been brought up amongst riches and affluence. As a child, whatever he asked for, he received. Money was no object, dominion no barrier. He was used to getting what he desired.

As his car drove away from the airport, Allesandro’s mind refused to think of anything else except his recently departed lover. It was inconceivable that they would never meet again. This cannot end here _. I will not allow it,_ he thought.

He leaned forward, sliding open the tinted glass that separated him from the driver. “Eduardo, I need you to do something for me. I want you to find out more about him; where he lives, who he sees, where he goes.”

“Yes, sir,” his manservant replied without taking his eyes from the road. It wouldn’t be a difficult task. Money could buy anything; all it took was the right bribe in the right hands.

It may be a long time before they meet again, but Allesandro was certain that they would. He would make sure of that.

With a sigh, he tapped the cane on the back of Eduardo’s seat. “Take me home.”

**THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> For a continuation, see Old Blood, New Blood


End file.
